The Places I've Hidden
by SirienneHolmes
Summary: Sherlock has a hidey-hole and spends the night there in the rain! K plus for sickness and Sherlock just being Sherlock. Request if you'd like to see more! Not slash.


**The Places I've Hidden**

221B Baker Street was quiet that Saturday morning. It was a cold, damp April in London, and rain threatened to flood every ounce of the city. Sherlock was fully dressed but lying languidly on the sofa, fully stretched out and looking quite relaxed, his eyes closed, his hands pressed together in thought. John Watson was drinking tea and eating a light breakfast, reading the paper. It was silent until…

"AHHCHOO!"

John jumped at the sound, nearly spilling his tea. Sherlock had sat up, grabbing at a box of tissues automatically. He wiped his nose and then lay back down again, putting the tissue in his pocket.

John raised an eyebrow, doctor mode settling into his brain. "Did you catch cold?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't care. I'm thinking."

"You just sneezed. Do you have allergies?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and turned his head towards John, an incredulous look on his face. "Really, John. I don't. Besides, all the rain has washed out the pollen and such." He waved his hand languidly in the general direction of the window and then settled down again.

John let it go.

A week passed, and Sherlock got no worse. They had a few interesting cases to solve, which meant Sherlock ate very little, if anything at all. John began to notice that, on his off time, Sherlock would disappear quite frequently for hours and then return later. John decided it was useless to ask his flatmate about his weird behavior, so one day, he decided to follow him.

Sherlock jumped up from his chair presently and pulled his coat on, not bothering with his scarf. "I'm going out, John."

John glanced up from his computer and looked out the window. "In _this_ weather? You'll catch cold!" He scolded.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'll stay dry. See you." Then, he left.

John waited a moment before cursing his own curiosity and following Sherlock's path.

The taller man weaved himself through the London rainy day crowd, occasionally pushing and shoving rudely when heavy men with ungainly umbrellas and clumsy women with parcels wouldn't move fast enough, disregarding their feelings. John was not so rude and almost lost Sherlock several times. He saw Sherlock dart suddenly into an old, abandoned building just sitting untouched on a side street. John followed him inside. He could hear Sherlock's steps echoing on the metal stairs, and he walked as lightly as he could so that his presence wouldn't be known. Sherlock was rarely mad at John, but he could become quite aggressive, and John did not want to be the target of his anger. In the process, he lost sight of Sherlock, the last glimpse of him merely the edge of the dramatic, sweeping coat flinging rain down the metal steps. By the sound of it, though, Sherlock hadn't gone past the third floor.

John reached said floor and looked around curiously. There were some spots worn into the ceiling from water damage and the wooden floors were dark with mold. There was a lot of open space, and even a window, but no sign of Sherlock. John shook his head in disbelief. A six-foot-seven-inch man was not easy to hide anywhere, much less an empty room. But John gave up, hoping maybe that he had miscalculated a little and that maybe Sherlock had gone higher up into the building.

John Watson, however, had failed to miss a massive, gaping hole in the wall. Probably because John had never stepped into the room.

Sherlock watched John until he couldn't see him anymore and smiled. He was secretly flattered that he'd been followed, but couldn't imagine what reason John would have to do it. No matter. He settled further into his place and watched the city of London going by on this dreary, sleepy, rainy day.

When John got back to the flat, he made himself dinner from the few ingredients that were fit to cook with and picked up a novel that he'd been reading and had left on the counter. He scolded himself mentally for 'being as bad as Sherlock' about leaving things where they didn't belong and collected his dinner. He sat down in his armchair and dove into the pages of the written word.

John didn't know how much time had passed when he looked up, startled. What had aroused him from the land of his novel was the rain pelting noisily on the glass windowpane. He thought of Sherlock, since the man hadn't come home yet, and hoped me was somewhere dry.

Meanwhile, Sherlock had curled up even further, inching away from the outside. He hadn't been expecting such a torrent of rainfall—the weatherpeople always made mistakes, he should really know better than to trust them—and it would do no good for him in the long run. He couldn't see anything through the rain, but he couldn't go home, either, or he'd risk getting soaked through.

Sherlock pulled his knees up to his chest and pulled the ends of his coat around his body, shivering slightly. He had no choice. He had to wait out the storm. The sound of the rain was soothing, and Sherlock, admittedly, was tired. He rested his head against his knees and closed his eyes, concentrating on the sound of the rain falling down, down, down into the London streets below.

John began to get anxious as it got darker. The rain hadn't let up, and there was still no sign of Sherlock. No texts, no calls, nothing. As the hours crawled on till late, John began to pace. Finally, he sent a text to Sherlock.

_Where are you?_

No response. John waited a few minutes before trying again.

_Are you staying dry?_

Again, no response. John tried again.

_Do you have somewhere to stay?_

For the third time, his phone didn't buzz with a text. John almost threw his phone before remembering that, wherever his flatmate was, he could take care of himself. _But sometimes, he can't_. John thought, and that filled his chest with nervous feelings and his stomach with nausea. He hoped Sherlock was dry and safe and not hurt and bleeding somewhere, or putting his life in danger, or doing something stupid like that.

Needless to say, John didn't sleep very easy.

His phone buzzed rather noisily by his ear, which woke him up. John jumped into action, opening the text.

_All fine.-SH_

"Oh, thank God," John breathed a sigh of relief, his heart beginning to return to a normal and less anxious beating. He looked out the window and noticed that the pelting, heavy rain of yesterday had turned into a misty drizzling. Feeling hungry and more than ready for breakfast, John went downstairs.

He almost had a heart attack when he saw who was in his living room.

It was Sherlock, who had ever reason to be there. The flat wasn't all that cold, but the man was shivering. His hair was wet, and there were raindrops nestled neatly in the curls. John could tell, by the simple fact that the color of the coat was a few shades darker, that Sherlock was wearing a damp coat, if the rest of him wasn't just as damp by now. Idiot.

"Sherlock!" John cried.

Sherlock jumped. He'd been sitting in John's chair for no particular reason, but he seemed just as surprised to see John as John had been to see him. He had risen in his startling to full height, but he seemed to slouch a little around his shoulders, and his hands were thrust in his pockets, meant to secure his coat around himself, most likely. His collar was turned up, and John could tell that his teeth were chattering.

John sighed. "You git. Take your damp clothes off."

Sherlock blinked and didn't move. Finally, he sat down in his chair and pressed his bare hands together. They were pink with cold. His cheeks had a slight flush to them, which John didn't miss.

"Sherlock, you've got to take off your clothes and change," John commanded, already proving the doctor he was by his stern voice alone. "You're all wet, and just sitting there won't help."

Sherlock said nothing, closed his eyes, and leaned his head back against the chair with a soft groan.

John gave up and went to make Sherlock some tea. If he refused to take off his clothes, maybe some tea would warm him up. John heard Sherlock sneeze three times in quick succession while he was putting on the kettle and couldn't suppress an impatient laugh. "I _told you_ to take off your clothes, Sherlock! Nice of you to text me, by the way. I was only worried about you."

"You shouldn't have been," Sherlock replied in the calm voice one would expect from a logical mind like his. "I was just sleeping."

John nodded, remembering that Sherlock rarely picked up his phone when he was sleeping deeply. "Mind telling me where?"

"The old warehouse you followed me to."

John stopped mid-pour. He didn't even ask how Sherlock had known that, and instead went to the second most pressing question. "Where were you? I couldn't find you after I got to the third floor."

"There's a hole in the wall, just on the other side of the door," Sherlock replied. "You simply didn't _look_."

John came back into the living room, forsaking the tea and discovering that Sherlock had finally taken off his coat and suit jacket. Both were hanging up in the inside of the door. Sherlock was still shivering, though. "You were hiding," John began to breathe faster, trying not to yell, "in a hole, in the wall?"

"Yes," Sherlock said very simply and carefully. "I've dug into the wall a bit so that I can safely hide inside. I can watch all of London from there. Or, at least, the goings-on at that street corner. I have over a dozen places all over the city where I can watch the streets below. I was simply watching this one, looking for clues to an unsolved homicide. But," he shrugged, "I trusted the weatherpeople—stupid, stupid!—and decided not to go home in that torrent of rain. So, I spent the night there. Unfortunately, I fell asleep, so it didn't do me any good." He sighed, chewing on his lower lip. John knew he was disappointed in himself, and almost felt sorry for him. "I've got to go back," He stood up and went to put on his coat again. "I've already wasted too much time."

"Hold on, Sherlock," John grabbed the arm of his flatmate before he could reach his coat and swung him around so that they were facing each other. Sherlock struggled to get out of John's grasp, but the army doctor was firm and unyielding. Sherlock finally gave up and relaxed.

"What?" He snapped, his eyes dangerous.

"You can't put that coat on again! It's all wet!" John insisted. "And you've caught cold, and maybe a fever."

"A fever?" Sherlock scrunched his face up in confusion, trying to pull away from John again.

"Yes, a fever! You feel a little hot to me. Now look, Sherlock," John tugged his flatmate closer until they were staring each other down. "Sleeping in a hole inside of a building can't have been good for you. You need a hot cup of tea and some relaxation time, and maybe some soup."

"I'm _not_ hungry, _not_ sick, and I _don't_ need _you_ telling me what to do!" Sherlock cried, yanking his arm away from John so hard it hurt. "I'm going out until I get the information I need, and then I'm going to tell Lestrade! And then—!" He stopped in the middle of pulling on his coat.

"Go on," John said sweetly, smiling. He knew when his flatmate had been beat by his own exhaustion, illness, or hunger, and now was one of those times. Although John couldn't be quite sure which of the three had done him in this time. Perhaps it was a combination of the three? "Tell me." John's voice remained sugar sweet. "What after that?"

Sherlock stopped tying his scarf around his neck, and instead took it off. "…then I'm going to eat a whole pot of soup." He wet his lips, and John saw the first fault.

"And then?"

"Then I'm going to have tea," Sherlock hesitated with his coat, until he shrugged his shoulders out of it. Reading the signals, John obediently went over to take his flatmate's coat.

"Then what?" John purred softly.

Sherlock sighed. "Then, I'm going to lie down and rest a while." He stretched, indicating that his back was bothering him. Probably from the way he'd slept, most likely.

"All right then," John said satisfactorily. "Chicken noodle soup?"

Sherlock sighed in the fashion of an exhausted child. "Please?" He begged weakly.

John smiled warmly. A begging Sherlock was a beat, tired, and sick one, and one that would most likely respond positively to a little mothering—not too much, but just enough to get him going at full speed again. "Go sit in your chair and I'll make you some."

"Tea too, please?" Sherlock asked, but was rewarded by a warm cup passed into his hands by the former soldier. Sherlock smiled at John in thanks and sat down in his chair, sipping his tea and watching the rain fall down into the streets of London.

And 221B Baker Street was quiet once more.

_Sort of inspired by Gatekeeper's "Domus." I like the idea of Sherlock hiding in strange places._

_The story is complete for now, but if you'd like to see Sherlock hiding in a particular place, by all means request! If I like it, I might write something about it! :D_

_Thanks, and I'd be ever s grateful if you reviewed!_

_SH_


End file.
